


I didn't kill him...did you?

by rideswraptors



Series: Gallavich Shorts [9]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Ian's a little scary in this one folks, Light Angst, M/M, Major Comfort, Mickey Milkovich should not, Post-Wedding, Terry dies, all the triggers friends, have to kill, his own dad, like you watch the show, please and thanks, shameless related warnings, so you should know this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:49:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24449854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rideswraptors/pseuds/rideswraptors
Summary: Now, they were married. For real. Like they did it in front of a shit ton of people and had a piece of paper with their names on it. No hiding, no backing out, no games. Married. If something happened to Ian, the hospital would call Mickey. Mickey was the one who could make decisions. If Mickey got roped into shit again, and got locked up, Ian would be able to call the shots. They’d have special privileges. Legal ones. Nobody could get between them now. Not even Terry fucking Milkovich.And he was trying pretty fucking hard, too.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: Gallavich Shorts [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1611559
Comments: 26
Kudos: 337
Collections: Numerous OTPS Infinite Fandoms





	1. Mickey

Mickey was the one who had to do the big gestures. Yeah, sure, Gallagher had been the one to propose, but he was such a dramatic bitch that Mickey usually had to do something really loud and really gay (sometimes violent) to get his attention. Like punching a cop instead of killing Frank. Like coming out in their local in front of his dad and all his stupid fucking friends. Or escaping jail and bringing Ian with him to the border. Ian dragged him through every stage of their relationship kicking and screaming, got sick of his shit, and then Mickey scrambled to keep him. It was their routine. Their status quo. 

Right up until Gallagher blew it at the courthouse and then tried to fob off some promise-ring bullshit at him. 

That shit cut him deep, but he had to admit it was pretty satisfying to watch Ian grovel for once. Needless to say, Mickey didn’t handle any of it well. Or with any sort of subtlety. But he wasn’t used to being the injured party. He wasn’t used to not being the fuck up in the situation. He just had to wait out Ian’s little hissy fit and watch him be the one to blow up. 

And man, oh fucking man, did he blow up. Ticked all the boxes along the way too: loud, gay, and violent. 

Mickey had been torn between pissed off and amused. For one, Byron clearly couldn’t take a hit, that shit wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t exactly Ian’s M.O. to lay out somebody who was clearly unable to defend themselves. But he was also pretty amused because there were three fuckers that Ian was beating down without much of a problem, and he had a broken leg. Did he  _ hand _ Byron his crutches? This fucking kid…

Now, they were married. For real. Like they did it in front of a shit ton of people and had a piece of paper with their names on it. No hiding, no backing out, no games. Married. If something happened to Ian, the hospital would call Mickey. Mickey was the one who could make decisions. If Mickey got roped into shit again, and got locked up, Ian would be able to call the shots. They’d have special privileges. Legal ones. Nobody could get between them now. Not even Terry fucking Milkovich. 

And he was trying pretty fucking hard, too.

Mickey was sitting in the lobby of their hotel, head down and hands braced behind his neck. The cops had shown up, looking pretty annoyed and disinterested. They were getting information from the manager, a witness, and Ian, who was pretty close to losing his cool. 

“Look, I get that we’re ex-cons, but that asshole burned down our  _ wedding _ venue! Yesterday!” Ian smacked the back of his hand against the palm to emphasize his words. “He is trying to kill us, and he’s not going to stop.” 

“We’ve got a witness who didn’t see anything useful and a security camera that doesn’t work. We don’t have any evidence against Mr. Milkovich, so unless there’s anything else--”

Mickey sat up straight, hands out uselessly. 

“I rolled on a Mexican cartel I worked for. Could be them too.” 

The cop gestured to Mickey in a smug, grateful I-told-you-so kind of way. It pissed Mickey right the fuck off, but he was used to cops be shitty to...everyone. Ian’s jaw worked hard, nostrils flaring as he pulled that bitch face Mickey thought was equal parts cute and hilarious.

“You could at least go  _ talk _ to him! I don’t know, maybe do your fucking jobs, or--!” Mickey saw Ian’s arm move probably before Ian even knew what he was doing. So he was out of his seat, jerking his husband away, a hand on the curve of his hip to keep him calm and grounded. 

“Easy there, tough guy,” he muttered. Then he turned one of his signature glares on the men in front of them. “Are we done here? We got a honeymoon to get back to.” 

“Yeah, we’re done,” the other cop chimed in, interrupting his douchebag partner. The guy slid Mickey his card. “Call if you think of anything else--”

“Or if my dear old dad shoots up our house next?” 

“Yeah, whatever. C’mon Joe.”

Ian lunged in their direction as they walked out the door, but Mickey held him back with a little bit of effort. Luckily his leg was still fucked otherwise Ian would’ve been cuffed and on his way back to a jail cell. 

“Not worth it, man, it’s not worth it.” 

“How are you so calm right now? You were gonna kill him yesterday!” Ian hissed, pulling away to run a hand through his hair and pace. Both the manager and the witness were pretty disinterested now, so they made themselves scarce. Mickey let Ian have a moment to get his energy out and crossed his arms over his chest.

“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “We’re married. I just--” He sighed. “I don’t know, I just don’t give a fuck. And besides, it could be the cartel. The warden said they were looking for me.” 

“We’ve been out for two months, Mick, he was fucking with you.” 

He lifted a shoulder. “We can’t know that for sure.”

Ian took long, stilted strides across the lobb, still fuming. 

“I don’t get how you’re so calm right now.”

“Me neither, but you seem pretty fired up for the both of us, so I’m good.” 

“We seriously just can’t have one fucking nice day together, can we?”

“Apparently not, but it always seems to work itself out. And we’re here,” he said reaching to catch Ian’s wrist as he passed. He pulled on him so they were face to face, and Mickey reached up to wipe at the stray tear fighting its way out of the corner of his eye. He could see Ian’s lip fight not to wobble, the creases in his forehead, the redness sneaking up his neck. “I’m not gonna let him hurt you,” Mickey told him firmly, quietly. 

It was like something had flipped a switch in him. Turned off every feeling but downright fucking certainty. Certainty #1: Ian was his, period. Certainty #2: Mickey always protected Ian, period. Certainty #3: Terry Milkovich was a dead man walking.  _ Period _ .

Ian let out a harried sigh and dropped his forehead to Mickey’s. Mickey just cupped his face and neck, holding him up. 

“Please don’t do anything stupid,” he whispered. “I couldn’t take it, I just--”

Mickey pulled back, caressing his face and shushing him until Ian collapsed into his arms, holding onto him just this side of too tight. Mickey just wrapped him up and held on. He held him until he stopped shaking and then swiped a hand up and down his back. 

“Let’s go home. Yeah, c’mon, we need to get outta here, let’s go.” 

Mickey wasn’t going to do anything stupid. 

Because there was nothing stupid about protecting what was yours. 

*

They didn’t tell anybody what happened. Not even Sandy. It was all kind of a mess because Lip had moved out and apparently Debbie had been locked up (where they were getting bail money, he had not a single fucking clue). The kids were a wreck and Carl was trying to hold everything together. Ian went full on Dad-Mode, having Liam give Franny a bath, cooking up a real meal, cleaning up the house as he moved around it. Carl practically leaped to attention, jumping at every order Ian gave him. They got the kids cleaned, fed, and quiet in front of a movie. Carl did dishes while Mickey did laundry, and Ian ran around doing everything else. 

Mickey watched his husband carefully, checking for any signs of mania. It happened still, on occasion, and no amount of self-care in the world set him right again. If they needed to go to the clinic, Mickey would haul his ass there, kids or no. Carl put the last of the dishes away, pulled out two beers for them, and leaned against the counter, watching Mickey. 

“Dude  _ what _ ?” 

He tipped his bottle in the house’s general direction. “You think he’s okay?” 

Mickey gave him a half shrug. “I’m watching it.” 

“Good,” Carl answered absently, not sounding convinced. “Seems worked up, though.”

“Yep, and he’s gonna be.” 

“Something happened, didn’t it?”

“Yep.” 

“You gonna do something about it?”

“Yep.” 

“You gonna get arrested again?”

“Hope not.” 

“But it’s worth it.”

That one wasn’t a question. Mickey shot a glance over at his brother-in-law as he folded t-shirts. Carl looked as resolute as Mickey felt, and they silently reached an understanding. Ian may have been his primary responsibility, but all of the Gallaghers were swept up in Mickey’s circle of protection. Ian was calling the shots now, Ian was making the rules, and Mickey was going to be the one to enforce them. 

“Want help?”

Mickey snorted. “Not from you.” Carl opened his mouth to protest. “Ian finds out I got you involved in anything, and I’m toast. I like my balls right where they are, thanks.” Carl made a casual whipping sound and Mickey flipped him off, making him cackle. Mickey couldn’t help the tug of the smile at his lips. He looked a lot like Ian when he laughed. 

“For real, though, you need anything, just let me know. Kinda like having you around. Don’t have to worry about him as much.” 

“I ain’t going anywhere.” He tossed his head. “Go see if his majesty wants anything else done.” 

Carl snorted, but did as he was told. Mickey kept on folding clean laundry, stain treating loads that were about to go in, and sorting shit. And planning. 


	2. Mickey

Ian went with Sandy to bail Debbie out and Carl was at work, which meant Mickey was in charge of the rugrats. They’d taken the car, and there was no way in hell he was leaving two kids alone when there was a hit out on him and he was known to be living there. So he told Liam to grab his coat and swept Ginger Junior up into his arms. 

“Where are we going?”

“The park,” Mickey answered quickly. 

“Ian said you weren’t supposed to leave the house.”

“Well what Ian don’t know won’t hurt him, capiche?”

Liam squinted up at him. “Dishonesty really isn’t good for a healthy marriage.”

“Jesus  _ christ _ kid, give me a break.” 

Liam crossed his arms. “Tell me why we’re going and I’ll go.” 

Mickey scowled and bounced Franny in his arms. “I got an errand, all right? You and Frankenstein can run around the jungle gym while I get something done, and after we’ll go get ice cream or some shit.” 

Franny gasped, “Bad word!” She clapped her hand over her mouth. Mickey narrowed his eyes at her. 

“You can keep a lid on it too, short stack.” Franny thought about it a moment, then mimed locking her lips and throwing away the key. “Good. See? Even she can hang.” 

Liam sighed heavily. “Is it illegal?”

“ _ No _ . I just need to talk to some people.” 

“About what?”

“About stuff that’s none of your business. Can we go now?” 

Liam finally relented. Either he was drawn in by the promise of ice cream or he was gathering intel. Hard telling. But Mickey didn’t care either way. The park was only a half mile walk. It wasn’t the best playground, but it wasn’t the worst either. There were needles and broken bottles on the ground, but the equipment worked. Franny was thrilled regardless and took off for the swings. Liam chased after his niece, shouting at her to slow down and be careful. Mickey stood at the edge, eyes locked on them. But the hairs on his neck stood up.

“You’re late,” Iggy’s gruff voice came from next to him. Mickey didn’t bother looking at him, just kept watch of the little ones.

“Had to bring the kids, short legs.” 

His brother snorted. “Since when do you have kids?”

“Don’t. Gallaghers.” He didn’t bring up Lana or Yev. Didn’t see the point. 

“Congrats, by the way. I woulda come, but--”

“Yeah, I get it.”

“Sent a nice gift though.” 

“Piece of your stash is always appreciated,” Mickey offered blandly. Then he waited. Iggy knew what he wanted to talk about, there was no way he didn’t. He didn’t need to ask.

“I had nothin’ to do with the Bamboo. And I didn’t roll up on you.” 

“And the drive by at our hotel?” he snarled back. From the corner of his eye, he saw Iggy wince and he thought for sure that he was about to be disappointed. 

“I didn’t know until too late, otherwise I woulda called.” Iggy turned so they were face to face, shoulder to shoulder. “He wants to pin it on a cartel. Make it look like a hit.” 

“Fan-fucking-tastic.”

“I don’t know what their next play is. He’s getting pissed though. It’s turning into an ego thing.” 

“He’s an old fuck with shit for brains, don’t know what he expected.”

“For you to run and hide like a bitch with your tail between your legs.” 

“Fuck him.” 

“That’s what I said,” Iggy sighed. “But you know how he is.” 

“An’ he don’t know shit about how I am. You tell ‘im I’m done playing games. He wants to take me out, he better look me in the fucking eye when he tries it.” He leaned in, brows lifted, sneering. “You tell him a single hair on a single Gallagher head gets out of place because of his bullshit, then he’s  _ dead _ .” 

“Talking big won’t phase him, Mikhailo,” his brother said quietly, seriously. “He won’t stop. You  _ know _ that.” 

Mickey let out a slow exhale through his nose. “Can’t go back in. Ian would never forgive me.” 

“Seems like Red would forgive you for anything. Especially this.” 

He grimaced. “We just got--” he kicked the ground, and lifted his eyes to the kids, who were laughing and running around like psychos, “fucking  _ married _ , man. I’m not leaving him.”

“So what are you asking?”

“M’not asking shit.”

“You know you still got a friend or two.”

“Yep.” 

“Ain’t none of ‘em got the balls to take out Terry, though. Not in this neighborhood.” 

“I’m aware.” 

Iggy sniffed. “Some of the younger guys...they’re sayin’ he’s a liability. Bringin’ too much attention to himself over family matters.” 

“Cops don’t like arson and bullets flyin’.” 

“There’s been a suggestion that we may need a change of management. I can’t promise anything, but if they knew nobody was gonna retaliate or take over--”

“Business is business. I can respect a good business decision.” Iggy narrowed his eyes and Mickey shrugged. “I’m out. Straight and narrow for me. Don’t want any of it.” 

Iggy gave a short nod. “All right. I’ll put the word out. Let you know what happens.” 

Iggy started to walk away.

“Don’t,” Mickey said softly. Iggy arched a brow at him. “Don’t...let me know.” Iggy nodded again, clapped him on the shoulder, and left. 

Mickey stood there for a little while longer, just watching Liam and Franny. Liam was pushing Franny, but clearly was getting tired of it. He pushed her one more time and then went and jumped on another swing. He put one foot on the seat, one on the ground, and twisted it up so that he could spin. He was laughing like a loon and Mickey couldn’t resist cracking a smile. It was nice to see him acting like a kid instead of talking about math homework and bran cereal. 

“Unca Mickkeeeyyy!” Franny called out, whiny as shit. “Come push meeee!  _ Pweeeease _ !” 

Ah, shit. He scuffed at the ground one time and went over, shoving a little at Liam as he passed and grabbing up the swing she sat on to pull it back. 

“I wanna go high! I wanna go high!” 

“All right, all right, keep yer shirt on.” He pulled her back as far as he could and gave her a shove that wasn’t forceful enough to dislodge her. She shrieked as she went. 

“Pump your legs, Franny! Like this!” Liam showed her and Franny tried to copy, but she kicked her legs back and forth too fast, which was pretty fucking cute, but it wouldn’t get her anywhere. Mickey slowed her down, even though she whined, and showed her, using her own legs and moving the swing in time, how to pump her legs right. She got the hang of it after that, and he only had to push her every once in awhile to keep her going while Liam cheered her on. 

They stayed for another hour before the kids got hungry. Mickey realized he was pretty hungry too when Franny climbed onto his back and his stomach growled. Liam talked a lot more on the walk back, apparently having lost his apprehension about Mickey’s errand. He chattered about school and some of his friends and this club he wanted to join but didn’t want to ask Ian for dues. Mickey asked a few follow up questions, not having to probe much to get a response. Kid was a lot like Ian that way. A freaking chatterbox. He was stupid smart too. Ambitious. Like Ian had been when they first hooked up. Mickey quietly determined that at least one Gallagher wasn’t going to piss away their future with stupid shit. What Liam wanted or needed, Mickey was going to get. 

They got to the door when Mickey made this resolution. Firm and clear in his head like only taking care of Ian had been.

“I’ll get you the money.”

“What?” Liam asked, eyes wide.

“For your club thing. Don’t worry about your brother, I’ll get the cash.” 

Liam’s face scrunched up. “Like you’re gonna steal it?” 

“No!” Franny protested. “Unca Mickey’s a good boy! Right Unca Mickey?” 

“Yeah,” Mickey agreed, feigning offense so that only Liam could see his humor, “I’m a  _ good boy _ , you jerk!” Franny laughed, wriggling and kicking her feet happily as they went through the door. Mickey went and dropped the girl on the couch and bent to take off her coat and shoes. She was still giggling and kicking her feet just to be silly. Mickey made all sorts of joking threats about feeding her to sharks, but it wasn’t working. 

His only warning was Franny’s happy shriek. “Unca Ian!”

Then Mickey was being jerked up to his feet, spun around, and wrapped in his husband’s monster arms. 

“ _ Jesus _ you scared me,” Mickey groused, letting himself sink into his hold. Ian just squeezed him tighter for a moment, then released him and slugged him in the arm. “ _ Ow _ ?” 

“I told you to stay inside!” he snapped, bitch face firmly in place while Mickey rubbed at the sore spot. 

“Kids were fuckin’ climbin’ the walls, man. We just went to the park.”

“In our neighborhood!” Ian threw his hands up wildly. “Where your psycho dad lives!” 

“Okay,” Mickey said nodding and sidling in closer. Behind them Franny flew off the couch with more shrieking and into her mother’s arms. Mickey slid his arms around Ian’s waist, pulling him in as they watched mother and daughter reunite. It had only been a couple of days, but that was years to munchkins. Ian wrapped an arm around Mickey’s neck and pulled him in to kiss his head.

“You weren’t here,” he whispered. “I freaked.” 

“Sorry. I’ll leave a note next time.”

“ _ Please _ .” 

*

It happened two weeks later. 

Iggy didn’t contact him, just like he asked. It was Sandy who found out. From somebody. She never said who. She called everyone into the living room and turned on the news, which was reporting the murder of Terry Milkovich and several of his associates. The men were well known criminals in the area, and the police suspected gang and drug involvement. 

Mickey dropped his elbows to his knees, his hands folded and pressed against his mouth and chin as he stared at the reporter on the screen. He wasn’t even really seeing or hearing it. Ian’s big hand came to the nape of his neck and Mickey leaned into his side. 

“The bastard’s really dead,” Sandy said flatly. “Somebody finally killed him.” 

“Yeah,” Debbie croaked out. “Kinda feels...anti-climactic somehow.” Sandy pulled a face. “What? Getting shot in a drug den on the South Side is so...cliche of him.”

“Mick?” Ian prompted with too much gentleness. Mickey knew his brain wanted him to shrug, but he wasn’t sure if he actually did it. He thought that when it finally happened that he would feel some kind of way about it. But he didn’t. He didn’t even feel relieved or happy or sad or...anything. 

Serendipitously, there was a knock at the door. Everybody’s eyes widened and they looked around, shaking their heads at each other. Nobody fucking knocked on their door, they barged in. Ian was out of his seat and heading for the door, Mickey on his tail, reaching for the gun tucked up where Liam couldn’t reach. 

“Cops,” Ian hissed. So Mickey shoved the gun back into place and slunk out of the doorway. Habit. Ian could handle himself. Sandy, though, leapt to stand next to him. The first one nodded at her.

“Morning, we’re looking for Mikhailo Milkovich,” he said, sounding bored. Mickey leaned against the wall, just out of sight. 

“He’s at work,” Ian lied smoothly. “I’m his husband. What do you want?” 

The two cops looked awkwardly between themselves, obviously skeptical, and Mickey watched Sandy’s arm shoot out to Ian’s chest, stopping him in place.

“I’m Sandy Milkovich, Mickey’s cousin, and Ian is his husband. They got married like three weeks ago. You wanna see pictures or do our tax dollars actually pay you to do something?” 

Mickey snorted softly, shaking his head. Like that bitch ever paid taxes. Southsiders and law enforcement would never mix. Just didn’t work that way. The assholes were clearly fumbling. 

“Then we’re sorry to inform you that his father, Terry Milkovich, is dead.” 

“Yeah,” Ian said snidely, “It’s all over the news. We’re real torn up about it.” 

The second one cleared her throat. “The detectives believe it was murder.”

“So?”

“So we’d like to ask your husband a few questions.” 

Ian’s expression fell flat. “Mickey had nothing to do with it.”

“That’s for us to determine.” 

“He’s got nothing to say to you. Why don’t you go talk to all the people Terry pissed off every second of the day?” 

That’s when Mickey had enough. He didn’t want Ian mouthing off to these guys and making things hard for himself. He nudged forward, moving Sandy behind him and putting a hand to Ian’s waist when he protested. 

“It’s all right. Go get breakfast started.” Ian opened his mouth to argue. “ _ Go _ .” He pushed at Sandy. “You too, bitch.” She shoved back at him and they disappeared into the house. 

“Mikhailo Milkovich?” the girl cop asked, hand on her belt. Rookie, probably. Mickey crossed his arms over his chest. 

“Yeah.” 

“We have questions about your whereabouts last night?” 

Mickey shrugged. “I’m a co-operatin’ parolee, officer. Shoot.”

“Have you spoken to your father recently?” 

“Not since he rolled up on me so I wouldn’t marry a man.” 

“Was there an altercation?” 

“What’s a couple of fists between a guy and his old man?” 

“Where were you between 9 pm and 2 am last night?” 

Mickey shrugged with his mouth. “Got home at 6. Rugrats were in bed by 8:00. Had dinner with my husband when he got home at 10:30. Had his dick up my ass until after midnight, and then we were asleep. Average Monday.” The cops blanched at his vulgarity, and it was pretty gratifying. 

“Can anyone else verify that?”

Mickey shrugged, “A bunch of people with criminal records?” They lifted their brows and he scowled. “Look, I got a kid to get to school and errands to run, I don’t have time for my dad’s bullshit.” He leaned into it. “He was a  _ dick _ . To everyone. Everybody wanted him dead. Why don’t you start with the guys who are gonna make some money off it?”

He stepped back and slammed the door in their faces, physically wiping his hands of the whole thing. Everybody went quiet when he walked into the kitchen, and he could only roll his eyes.

“It’s  _ fine _ ,” he intoned, accepting coffee from Debbie gratefully. 

“Do they think you killed your dad?” Liam asked around his cereal. Franny gasped.

“No!” Mickey shot back, trying to reassure the little girl. “Maybe? I don’t know.”

Carl leaned over the counter, brows raised. “ _ Did _ you?” 

Mickey didn’t dignify that with a response and he didn’t have to because Ian smacked him upside the head. Franny’s eyes got big and her little chin started wobbling. Mickey was walking over without thinking. 

“Cut that shit out, Frankenstein,” he grumbled, setting down his coffee to pick her up. She wrapped her arms and legs around him and started crying, obviously reliving some traumatic bullshit. He dropped a kiss to her shoulder and pressed his face into her hair. “It’s okay, you’re okay, let it out.” He made some soothing noises and swayed with her until she calmed down. She pulled off his shoulder, her bright green eyes, big and watery. 

“Are the mean guys gonna take you away, Unca Mick?” 

“ _ No _ ,” he told her, dipping his head toward hers to emphasize his point. “They just asked me some questions.” 

She threw her arms around his neck and started sobbing again, and it was all Mickey could do not to start cussing. He felt Debbie’s hand on his shoulder and he turned so she could take her kid.

“Okay, I think we’re a little tired. Back to bed, baby.”

“ _ Mooo-mmyy, _ ” Franny cried snuggling into her mom’s neck as she kept shaking. Debbie took her upstairs, saying sweet things to the little girl to calm her down again. Mickey slumped in the closest chair and dropped his head into his hands. 

“That asshole’s gonna fuck up my life from the grave,” he growled to no one in particular. Sandy reached out to put a hand on his arm. 

“Kid’s just upset after everything with Debs. It’s not your fault.” 

Ian came over with plates of eggs and bacon, and shoved Mickey’s coffee back under his face. 

“What do you think happened?” he asked, trying to sound casual but failing miserably. Mickey shot him a glare and he pulled his lips in, feigning innocence. 

“Coulda been anyone,” Sandy mused. “He ran with a bunch of different cartels. Drug lords. Arms dealers. He helped with illegal gambling and money laundering. Blackmailed a bunch of people, extorted the rest. His own family hated him. Like, fuck, who  _ didn’t  _ want to kill him?”

Mickey shrugged silently and drank his coffee. He didn’t really want to talk about it anymore. But he could feel Ian’s eyes on him; he knew his husband was concerned. Probably about several different things in that moment. Mickey couldn’t exactly blame him. Mickey patted the table.

"Go get ready, kid. We're running late." Liam nodded and shoved off. Ian angled himself toward Mickey, a hand on his thigh. 

"I gotta head out." Mickey nodded. "Meet me for lunch?" He nodded again and Ian pulled him in for a kiss, then left for work. Carl had wandered out too at some point, leaving him and Sandy at the table. They were quiet. She was smoking, he was drinking coffee. There wasn't much of anything to say. They were two Milkoviches who had landed in the laps of the Gallaghers. And the monster in their nightmare was finally dead. 

"You should call her."

"Yeah."

Their eyes met across the table, full of too much knowing and too much seeing. 

"She misses you."

"Fuck her."

Sandy had always been around on the periphery when they were kids. So she knew just as well as Ian how gutted he'd been when Mandy didn't respond to their invite. He had her number, he could have called and told her. It was a spite thing. She'd ditched them without a backward glance, so Mickey wasn't inclined to believe she deserved to be a part of their happiness now. He sniffed.

"She could visit," he mumbled reluctantly.

Sandy gave him a half smile. "Maybe she will now."

He reached across the table to take her hand for a minute. Just held it, and let it calm him a little. The moment was totally ruined when Liam and Carl bounded in, bickering. So he scowled and squeezed it once. 

"I'll call." She answered with a nod. "Would you shitheads quit your yammering!  _ Jesus _ ." He snagged Liam by the strap of his backpack and urged him along. "Let's get moving. Carl, shut the fuck up already!"

They took Liam to school first because he was a lunatic about being on time, and then he drove Carl downtown. Carl had negotiated a later start time with his boss because he wanted to take the kid to school or some shit, which Mickey thought was nice, so he didn't mind the driving. Plus it meant he got the car to meet Ian for lunch or pick him up after his shift at the hospital. 

As Carl was getting out, he paused and hung his head in the doorway. Mickey arched a brow.

"I'm sorry. About your dad. I know he was an evil piece of shit and everybody will congratulate you, but...he was your dad, too. And I'm sorry for that part."

"Thanks."

Carl nodded and shut the door. As Mickey watched him go, he thought landing in with the Gallaghers wasn't all that bad anyway.

Since it was his day off, Mickey drove back to the house and decided to walk a bit. Clear his head. He ended up at the high school baseball field, in the dugout. It was a weird place to be. Too many memories. The ultimate fuck you to his dad. Place where he and Ian fell in love. Fell apart. Pieced each other back together. He sighed, pulled out his phone, and called her number.

It rang once and went to voicemail. He struggled against the way his whole body flinched. He nearly choked when the beep came.

"Hey. It's me." He cleared his throat. "Guessin' yer busy or you don't wanna talk to me. Probably mad at me for something I don't remember, so don't hold your breath on an apology." He moved the speaker away from his mouth for a second to let out a half sob. "Was just callin’ to tell you Dad's dead." Tears stung his eyes. "He's dead, Mands, somebody got him last night. News made it sound like a mess. Just...just thought you should know, in case you wanted to throw a party or whatever." He swallowed, trying to get some air. "Ian's good, by the way. We got married. Thought you might show. Whatever. Hope you're good." He paused for what felt like an hour, but was probably only ten seconds. "I miss you," he whispered. Then he hung up and let his head drop back so the tears could fall on their own. 


	3. Ian

Ian jogged as quickly as he could to clock out for lunch, ducking out of sight of his supervisor so she wouldn’t wrangle him into something. After the Paula debacle, he'd been reassigned to Larry Seaver, along with Mickey, and he'd hooked them up with the Safer Foundation. It was a good bunch of people trying to get ex-cons back into regular life, into the respectable workforce. They secured Ian a job as a nursing assistant at Northwestern Medical. Mickey was working at the post office, of all things, and he actually enjoyed it. He worked at a single location, sorting shit to where it was supposed to go. Ian was just glad he didn't have to deal with people or driving all day, so it was kind of perfect. Not to mention, he had holidays off, great pay, and great benefits. 

Every other week, he had a Tuesday off, so he would come meet Ian at the hospital for lunch. Mickey always got there first, and Ian was always so glad to talk to someone  _ not insane _ . The nursing staff was mostly cool but the doctors were dicks and the patients barely tolerable. He wished he could have been set up somewhere on the Southside. Maybe he could apply after awhile. 

He caught sight of Mickey in their designated spot, no food, staring out the big, floor to ceiling windows. His head was tipped back, and Ian knew security would be nagging him if it looked like he was asleep. The place was open 24 hours and the huge dining areas were almost always empty, but god fucking forbid a homeless guy take a nap.

Ian made sure to make a lot of noise and called out to him before he tried to touch him. Catching Mickey unawares in public was never a safe idea. He opened his eyes, which were a little red at the rims, and smiled before Ian kissed him hello. 

"No food?"

"Your noodle buddy said to give him 10," he teased. Ian smirked.

"You keep saying that, but I'm not the one he gives double portions to."

"Yeah, yeah," Mickey said blushing. Ian pushed him over on the booth bench and wrapped him up in a hug. Mickey went easily. Too easily for such a public space. Ian resented the fact that he missed the grumbling in that moment. 

"Wanna talk about it?"

Mickey shook his head.

"Wanna eat about it?"

He shrugged.

"Kay. I'll get food. And a couple of those giant cookies?"

He shrugged again and Ian kissed his temple. 

*

Mickey hated being needy. He hated feeling clingy and mopey, like he'd suffocate if Ian wasn't right next to him, touching him at all times. He'd wasted a lot of time and energy letting that feeling get the better of him, letting it make him angry and violent when all he wanted was to reach out. Now it was easy as breathing. Ian was right  _ fucking _ there, and they were married and free. Actually and really free. No more scrapping, no more jail, no more motherfucking Terry fucking shit up. It was just them. Taking care of each other, like always. 

So yeah, he was fucking snuggling his husband in the hospital cafeteria while he ate his lunch and complained about shithead doctors. He could have fallen asleep that way, listening to Ian's voice, feeling him pressed up alongside him. 

"Baby, you gotta eat something."

Mickey hummed. "Too comfy. One more minute." Ian didn't respond, but kissed his head again. Mickey loved it when he did that. He'd rather chew off his own foot than admit to it, but he really did. Any non-sexual affection Ian gave him, he soaked up like a sponge, and Ian did it almost constantly. He didn't have to say it or anything, Ian just knew. Ian always seemed to know what Mickey needed. What he meant. Minus the one snafu that wasn't about Mickey at all. 

"Need you in 10 minutes Gallagher!" someone shouted from across the room. 

"Got it!" Ian shouted back tiredly. Mickey did grumble this time. "Sorry, Bryant's like the only nurse that's not a jerk to me."

" _ Bryant? _ "

"It's not like I picked his name."

"He sounds like a douche."

"You say that about everyone."

"Well I mean it this time."

Ian cupped his chin and turned his face up. "Mickey? I love you. But you always mean it."

Mickey sank into Ian's kiss, let the warmth of it sweep over him and fill up the holes his shitty morning had left behind. Ian's presses were light and sweet, focusing on Mickey's bottom lip, somehow coaxing him back to neutral. But he had to come up for air eventually, and he pressed one last kiss to his lips before stroking his cheek.

"Now eat. All of it. And the cookie."


	4. Lip

It was hard  _ not _ to watch them. Lip had witnessed a good portion of Ian's trainwreck of a relationship with Mickey Milkovich, the dirtiest white boy in America. He could so easily picture the two of them dancing around each other all those years back. Ian's lovestruck look. Mickey's sheer panic. It soothed something in Lip's soul to see them so casual, so open and obvious with each other. They were sitting out back, smoking. Tami didn't want him smoking around Freddy. 

Mickey came out with two O'Doul's and a Coors for himself. He dropped a blanket around Ian's shoulders before he passed one to Lip. Ian lifted his face for a kiss and they swapped a beer for a cigarette. 

Lip was stretched out on the bottom step, Ian and Mickey were on the top, legs tangled. 

"So are you doin' a funeral or what?"

"I ain't doin' shit," Mickey intoned, passing his cigarette back to Ian. "Joey's the one who's been up his ass, he can bury the son of a bitch."

"Good for you, man," Lip said, patting the man's foot. 

"Think we should do something though," Ian blew out smoke. "Burn an effigy or some shit."

"Effa-what?"

Lip snorted and Mickey kicked his arm, but Ian ignored the both of them.

"An effigy. Like a sculpture of a person you can set on fire. Or you just take their shit and throw it in a pile. Light it up."

"Huh," Mickey shrugged with his whole face. "I like it."

"I don't. How many times have the boys blown something up in the house?"

"Nothing  _ recently _ ," Ian argued. "It'd be like a controlled thing."

"Right. A controlled bonfire. In this neighborhood."

"Could always just burn his house down," Mickey chimed in.

Both Gallaghers answered with a resounding: "No!"

"Sheesh I thought it was  _ my _ dad who got murdered."

"They get any more information?" Lip asked. Mickey shook his head as he took the cigarette back from Ian. Why they shared at all was beyond him.

"Don't ask, don't tell," he muttered around the cigarette. "Just the way Dad liked it." Ian kicked at his foot and Mickey grinned dopily back at him. Lip felt another piece heal over at Ian's answering smile. 

He didn't used to get it, Ian's fixation on Mickey. But that was because Ian always talked about getting out of Chicago, living a better life. A bigger life. His bipolar shit...well, Lip had assumed that Ian decided to settle for Mickey when all that shit went down. They all had. Even Fiona. They didn't doubt Mickey felt strongly for Ian, they just thought Ian could do better. Or different, at least. 

But time and again, Ian went back, like a fucking addict. Crashed back into Mickey, put him through the wringer, and then tried for something different again. It took Lip a while to realize that Ian didn't  _ want  _ different. What he wanted was to patch up his Southside neighbors and settle down with his reformed thug husband. They'd probably nab a few strays along the way, but that was the Gallagher way.

They took care of each other. Even Lip could see that. And what else was there? Didn't fucking matter what city you lived in, what job you had. It was the same all over. One place was like any other. It was your people that made the difference. If you had the right people, the rest of it didn't matter. He hoped Fiona would figure that out too. Maybe come home someday.

Liam came out the door and shuffled over to Ian, ducking under the blanket when Ian lifted his arm and cuddling into him. Ian was still the kid's favorite, even if he pretended to be all grown up, and Ian was always in need of cuddling. 

"Whatcha doin' up, Li?" Lip asked, taking a sip of the O'Doul's. His counsellor said easing off was better than going cold turkey again. Non-alcoholic beer seemed alright for now. 

"Can't sleep. Too wired."

"Same dream again?"

"Yeah," the boy sighed.

"Bad one?" Mickey asked quietly, looking down at his hands. Liam replied that yes, it was the same nightmare he'd been having since he was small. But he didn't want to talk about it and none of them blamed him much.

"Do you have bad dreams, Mickey?" he asked. His voice was soft and small, betraying how young he was. How innocent still. Liam had an untouched quality Lip hoped he never really lost, even if everything around him was shit.

Mickey finally answered, "Used to. Not too much anymore."

"How did you make them stop?"

Lip watched Mickey's eyes rivet right back to Ian, just like always. Ian seemed to be his true north, just kept his sights on him and kept moving. Mickey took a pull of his beer.

"Thought about the good shit I had goin'. What made me feel safe. Free."

Lip watched the smile stretch across Ian's face as he dropped his gaze to his lap, picking at the label on his bottle. Mickey didn't seem to need his attention, though. Just kept watching him.

"I don't think anything makes me feel safe," Liam told them flatly. And Lip's heart broke. 

"Hey," Ian said, squeezing their brother. "We're gonna change that okay? I already called Fiona, me and Mick are gonna become your legal guardians, all right? No more forging signatures for you, pal."

Liam looked between the two men shyly. "Really?"

Mickey kicked out at him lightly. "For sure, kid. Somebody needs to be watching after ya. Might as well be the two old queens who nobody in their right mind would give a kid to."

" _ Thanks _ ," Liam drawled with a hard eye roll. 

"You'll be a good test kid. Show firecrotch here how annoying it is even when you got a good one. Bonus? No diapers."

Liam's face scrunched up and he looked at Ian.

"Was that a compliment?"

"Best not to think about it too much."

"Speaking of forged signatures, I need that paper--"

"Signed and on the table," Mickey interrupted. "It's fifty, right?"

"Yeah...I know it's a lot. You don't have to--"

"Take it out of my wallet, kid."

Liam beamed. "Thanks Mickey." But Milkovich just waved him off. Liam announced he was going to bed and gave Lip a high five before slipping back into the house. 

"Fifty dollars?" Ian followed up when he was sure Liam was gone. "For what?"

Mickey clicked his teeth. "Some club thing at school. It's not that much."

"Shit," Lip said, taking a pull from his bottle. "Gallaghers are comin' up in the world. Used to scrap for that." He pointed his bottle at Ian. "Remember the hot dog costume?"

"Oh,  _ fuck you _ ," Ian groaned. Mickey sat forward like a shark smelling chum in the water, eyes gleaming.

"Wait. A hot dog costume? When was this?"

"You were in juvie," Ian snarked back.

"Which time?" Mickey said, equally mocking. 

"Oh who the fuck knows? That was a long summer. I think Carl blew up the dryer."

"No, it was the microwave. Liam put marbles in the dryer. And down the toilet."

"Christ it's a miracle we're alive."

Mickey saluted him with his bottle. "Cheers to that." He chugged the rest of it and stood up. “I’m out. Early shift,” he told Lip casually. “See you later.” He tossed a look at Ian that Lip couldn’t possibly interpret. 

“I’ll be up in a bit,” Ian offered with a smile. Mickey smiled back, ran fingers through Ian’s hair, which Ian leaned into, and Mickey disappeared through the door. Ian watched him go, the soft look on his face gradually hardening to something pretty fierce. A look Lip hadn’t seen on him in awhile. 

It started as half a thought, niggling in the back of his skull. Not something even remotely thinkable. Just an instinct. But when the porch light brought out the harsh glint in his brother’s eyes, the thought ballooned into full out suspicion. A knowing. 

“You were there.” 

Ian whipped his head around. “What’s that?”

Lip didn’t even need him to confirm it. Didn’t need him to say it. But he couldn’t stop himself from getting the words out. 

“When they did Terry. You were there.” 

Ian didn’t even blink. Didn’t flinch or hide from the accusation. And that information settled into Lip’s gut heavy and thick. It wasn’t disgust, just...disbelief. Ian worked his jaw and looked away.

“Iggy called. Said there were these guys. They wanted some reassurance.”

“So you were a witness.” The fact that Ian didn’t pull the trigger was some relief, but still. It was risky. It was incredibly stupid. It made sense. 

“I wanted to  _ see it _ ,” Ian sneered, his tone damn near feral. “I needed to watch him die for every shitty thing he did to Mickey. I needed to know he was dead for sure. Not in the hospital. Not in prison. Dead. In the ground. For good,” he spat. 

“Ian…”

“I couldn’t let it be Mickey, Lip,” he said, tearing up now. “I  _ couldn’t _ . But he was right. Terry was never gonna let us be happy. Never. He was gonna hurt the man I love. I had to make sure that would never happen again.” 

“They know your name?”

“Yep. I know theirs too.” He took a long drag of his cigarette. “And I shook their fucking hands after it was done.” 

“And Mickey doesn’t know.” 

“I told him I had a longer shift last night. They’ve been asking me to pick up extra hours, so it was believable.” 

“ _ Jesus _ Ian,” Lip said, taking a pull from his bottle. “That’s so messed up.” 

Ian shrugged. “I wasn’t going to let him hurt Mickey anymore. At all. And Mickey didn’t need to be a part of it.”

“How do you know he wasn’t?” Ian frowned. “If Iggy was involved, then how do you know Mickey wasn’t?” 

“I guess I don’t. But he wasn’t there and he didn’t have to see it. That’s all I care about.” 


	5. Ian

Mickey was drifting off by the time Ian came up to bed. He was exhausted. The whole day was exhausting. The next day would be exhausting. His phone had been blowing up with random ass people sending condolences. He didn’t know most of the numbers. Mandy hadn’t even bothered to text him back or acknowledge his call. He was just ready for it to be done with. 

He listened as Ian shuffled around, heard the soft whispers of him changing clothes, felt the bed shift as he slid in next to him. Mickey didn’t hesitate to turn to him, to press into his hold as Ian dropped kisses to his arm and shoulder, up his neck and his cheek. He pulled Mickey’s leg over his hip and scooched down so they were nose to nose. 

“Lip g’hm?” Mickey muttered. Ian just hummed and slipped a hand under Mickey’s shirt, his fingers along his spine. “You okay?” 

“Go back to sleep, baby.” 

So Mickey just nosed into his chest and let himself focus on Ian’s breathing, steady and even. Mickey thought that things were perfect just like this. A beer on the porch with people he cared about, places to be where no one would try to shoot him, and getting to sleep next to his husband every night. He didn’t need big, sappy gestures like they showed in the movies. Ian was there for him, loving him, propping him up, every single day. No more scrapping and scrambling. 

Distantly, he heard Ian talking quietly, whispering something, but Mickey was too dazed and comfortable to listen properly. It was nice though, falling asleep that way. He’d pretended for such a long time that he was falling asleep with Ian next to him, babbling away about nothing at all, so he reveled whenever it actually happened. It made him feel heavy and content, like a good high on a warm night. 

*

Watching Terry Milkovich die had been an incredibly satisfying thing for Ian. He wasn't like Mickey, he wasn't the fucker's son, so there was no sentiment or regret. No good memories. In fact, Terry had tried and occasionally succeeded in ruining his good memories. 

It hadn't been a long, drawn out thing. Three guys had picked him up from a vacant lot, drove to some house Terry was crashing at, busted down the door. Terry's guys scattered like roaches. The first guy through the door shot Terry between the eyes. Dead instantly. They got out of there quick. Dropped Ian off near a train stop. That was it. 

Roger, Victor, and Hank. Those were their names. They used street names of course, but Ian wanted their legal names. As he rode the train back to Canaryville, he repeated them over and over in his head. He ate dinner with his husband, fucked him in their bed, and stayed awake most of the night to watch him sleep. He wasn't sure how he expected Mickey to react to the news of his father's murder, but he seemed resigned to it. Maybe Lip was right, maybe Iggy had reached out to Mickey first. Still, it didn't matter. Mickey was safe and that's what mattered.

Now, Ian stared at him as he slept, ran fingers through his hair and over his skin, wishing it was enough to soothe the hurts and erase memories. The effects of Terry Milkovich's brutality were written all over his youngest son's skin. Scars from scrapes, punctures, grazes. From knives and sharp metals and bullets. Tattoos that would eventually muddle but never fade enough to give him peace. There was a raised line on Mickey's head where his dad had pistol whipped him. There was a cigarette burn on his forearm he got for making too much noise in the house. There was an ache in his wrist from when it got broken for not getting the money during a drop, which wasn't set right because it was never seen by a doctor. Sometimes, Mickey woke up ready to start swinging. Sometimes, his eye twitched when he smelled a certain kind of vodka. He flinched at unexpected loud noises and would sometimes completely zone out for a minute or two.

Ian's shrink said it was post traumatic stress, and a pretty severe case. She said it often happened to children who experienced prolonged verbal, emotional, and physical abuse. Especially those who had no other support systems. They continued the violence in their own lives, couldn't function in normal society, and typically ended up in jail. 

"Or dead," she'd said softly. Unless. Unless they got the help they needed. Unless they found a reason and a way to break the cycle. It didn't take but two seconds for Ian to piece together that he was Mickey's way and reason.

So when Iggy called, the answer was obvious. He could put a stop to all of it. Save Mickey once and for all from that mean spirited bastard. To just  _ end it _ .

As Mickey slept, Ian told him every single thing he loved about him. He listened to his soft sighs, felt his breathing even out, felt his grip loosen and his body relax. He didn't know how long he talked, but when he ran out of things to say, he just started from the top.


End file.
